


Mise En Place

by volunteerfd



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Cooking, Cooking Lessons, M/M, Pre-Tony Stark/Bruce Banner - Freeform, Science Bros
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-06-07 02:33:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15208922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/volunteerfd/pseuds/volunteerfd
Summary: Tony asks Bruce for cooking lessons. Bruce misunderstands. The whole team gets involved.





	Mise En Place

Bruce lounged on the world’s most comfortable couch, courtesy of Stark Tower, reading the latest issue of a scientific journal, also courtesy of Stark. It was nice. It was peaceful. It was, oh, maybe three minutes before Tony showed up to break the peace with a minor irritation. Bruce still didn’t know if Tony went out of his way to annoy people in general (likely), annoy Bruce in particular (possible), or if he was simply an annoying person by nature (probably not). They were all disappointing options in their own way. His theory, though, was that Tony annoyed other people because they got annoyed, but he annoyed Bruce because he didn’t.

Bruce would be lying if he said he didn't enjoy those annoyances in some way. It was like having a friend, which was nice. As far as friends go, Tony Stark was a good one to have in your corner. And he also liked Tony, though he would never explicitly tell Tony that--his ego was big enough. More than that, though, it was almost like Tony liked  _him._ There _was_ something different about the way Tony annoyed him as opposed to Rogers or Fury or Gates or Musk.

Or maybe there wasn't.

Right on cue, a hand plucked the journal from his own and set it on the coffee table.

“Hey, Tony,” Bruce said, moving his feet to the floor and sitting up. He never felt comfortable being on his back around anyone, especially Tony; there was too many implications based on animal psychology about why that was a bad idea. Tony sat down next to him, right next to him, even though there was plenty of space.

“Anything good?” Tony gestured to the journal.

“I don’t know. I didn’t get a chance to finish it.”

“So, no, then. Hey, how would you feel about cooking lessons?” 

“I thought everyone liked my cooking.” Bruce frowned.

“Giving lessons, not taking them. I was thinking of picking up a new skill, and I thought ‘Who’s a better teacher than Banner?’”

Banner cocked his head to the side. “Most--most. Most people are better--” He closed his eyes. Tony had to be joking. “I didn’t know you had the time or inclination. Why would you ever need to know how to cook?”

“It’s a skill everyone should have. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Whatever response Bruce had prepared died out in a squeak. He hadn’t expected Tony to sound like a responsible parent sending his kid off to college.

“I do agree, actually.” He peered at Tony, trying to piece out an ulterior motive. If Tony wanted a meal, he could order takeout or hire a chef or program a robot. If he wanted Bruce, specifically, to cook him a meal, he had no problem flat-out asking. If he wanted cooking lessons, he could reincarnate Julia Child and keep her as a private teaching zombie until she died. So Banner was truly at a loss, but it was hard to deny Tony a (for once) reasonable, down-to-earth request.

"So, I figure, since you're already here, and we already know each other and worked together..."

Bruce laughed. "Well, don't get all mushy on me. I'm in.  When do you want to start?” 

 

* * *

  
  


Tony knew that Bruce knew that Tony would be no less than 30 minutes late for their 6:00 cooking lesson, so he didn’t feel bad showing up 35 minutes early. Punctuality oozed desperation. OK, maybe he was a  _ little  _ desperate, but that was when it was most important to not seem desperate.

He stopped short when he saw the whole team assembled lounging in the kitchen, waiting.

“You called it,” Steve said.

“Thirty five minutes. That’s almost on time,” Clint added.

Tony looked at all the faces, wondering what national emergency he missed. “What’s everyone doing here?” 

“Cooking lessons,” Bruce said, from behind the main counter. “You said everyone should know how to cook, right? So I asked if anyone else was interested and it turns out they all are.” 

“He told us, and I quote, ‘6:00 which means 6:30 Tony Time,’” Natasha said with a sly grin. 

“They...all?”

There were six stations set up with a cutting board and all sorts of ingredients and tools. One for each Avenger. Tony resisted the urge to throw his head back. How had they both missed the mark?

“I am excited to find out about Midgardian cooking ritual! Banner will be an excellent teacher, I am sure.” 

“He is the best cook,” Natasha said, “which I’m sure is why you asked.” It wasn’t much of a contest. Steve lived on depression-era meals with a soldier’s appetite and the health norms of the 40’s. Mayo-heavy, SPAM monstrosities of which he seemed blithely unaware of the health risks. Clint wasn’t much better with his bachelor food. He would boil a box of noodles and add a jar of sauce if he absolutely needed to, but he’d rather microwave a handful of chicken nuggets and squirt some ketchup on a paper towel if he could. Thor loved a good feast, but he didn’t  know how to cook and no one trusted him to.

“Nat, you’re also quite good.” Bruce’s brow furrowed. “Actually, you’re better than I am.” 

“Didn’t want to be sexist.” Tony said, recovering easily, ruffling Bruce’s hair. “What have you got planned for us?” 

“Grilled chicken, roast vegetables, and couscous. And if all goes well maybe dessert. What?”

He became painfully aware of ten glinting eyes on him. 

“You’re adorable,” Clint said before taking a noisy chomp of a carrot.

“Um, OK,” Bruce said, ducking down to rummage through the cabinets and hide his face. He reappeared with absolutely nothing. “The most important thing is mise en place—having all your ingredients prepared beforehand. I put all the actual ingredients at your stations but we do need to prep them so, um, peelers for everyone,” Bruce lifted a never-used, state-of-the-art peelers that Tony just happened to have a box of. “So it’s just, like, you peel the carrots and potatoes. Scrape and—OW.” Bruce clamped his right hand around his left index finger. The Avengers bristled, ready to take action, although they weren’t sure what kind. It would suck if they had a Code Green over a potato peeler, but Bruce would never let that happen. Tony bounded over to him to check what was wrong. 

“Stay back, my blood is—“ 

Tony pried Bruce’s hand away and hissed in sympathy. He’d peeled the skin off his finger. 

“Let’s get you cleaned up.” 

“No, I can do it myself.”

“Nonsense. It’s a tiny little nick. It won’t kill anyone. Jarvis!”

Tony rambled off instructions for safety precautions and told the others to “go peel or whatever” as he ushered Bruce to the nearest bathroom. He sat Bruce on the toilet and rummaged through the cabinet. It seemed oddly primitive--Stark cooking, Stark looking in a medicine cabinet, Stark wrapping a finger in gauze. The man did not live in the same universe as mundanities, and yet, here he was.

“I’m not used to peelers that peel so easily. Usually I need to use a bit more force.”

“It’s OK. Finger out.” 

“Tony—“

“Bruce. You really wanna wrap your radioactive blood up one handed? Come on. It’s barely even an owie. More like a boo-boo. Now give me your finger.”

Bruce raised his right hand and raised his finger.

“Not that one.”

He sighed, knowing he wouldn’t win this fight against Tony, and set his left hand on the countertop. Rolling his eyes, Bruce intoned, “Nurse me, Dr. Stark.” Tony sputtered knocked over the iodine.  “You OK?”  
“Peachy,” Tony said, half-heartedly patting some paper towels around the spill, knowing his tech would take care of it later. “Uh...Gonna sting.”

“I’m aware.” 

Tony squeezed the remaining drops of iodine on Bruce’s finger. He barely flinched. 

“You really got everything under wraps, huh,” Tony muttered, wiping his finger and piling gauze on.

“My finger or my emotions?”

“Yes.”

Bruce huffed out a laugh. “Kind of need to.”

“It’s not a question of need. It’s a statement of ability. Of…”

“Restraint? Asceticism?”

Tony sighed. “You are a very hard man to compliment.”

Bruce bit down his smile. “Did you ever think you suck at compliments?”

“I don’t suck at anything. Look at this bandaging. Look.” He held up Bruce’s hand to his face. 

“Thought you said it was barely an owie.”

“I didn’t want to tell you just how bad it was,” Tony said, solemnly. “We almost lost you.”

“A near tragedy. Listen, Tony, I appreciate the sentiment of this cooking lesson thing, but I don’t think it was a great idea. Nat can take over. I’m going to--”

As Bruce rose from the toilet seat, Tony gently nudged him back down.

“It was a brilliant idea, one of the best ideas I’ve ever had, and we’re gonna see it through to completion. This is nothing.”

“I thought you said I almost died.”

“Listen,” Tony said, putting his hands on Bruce’s face and looking him into the eyes. “It is deeply, utterly unfair that you are using the words I said ten seconds ago against me now, so stop listening to what I’m saying, and just do what I say.”

Bruce let his head fall to Tony’s shoulder and laughed. “OK, OK, you make a compelling argument.” 


End file.
